


Daddy's Had Enough Now

by misanthropyray



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Enemas, M/M, Necrophilia, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-12
Updated: 2011-09-12
Packaged: 2017-10-23 16:49:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/252577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropyray/pseuds/misanthropyray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moran releases our little visitor from under his arm and he stumbles and stands, brushing himself off indignantly. The boy's hair is a curling mass of dark brown hair that hangs at his ears. His skin is pale and stretched over harsh cheekbones that angle his face.</p><p>The resemblance is uncanny. Perfect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Daddy's Had Enough Now

**Author's Note:**

> This fic contains some pretty unpleasant violence during a sexual act. Please don't continue if you are weak of stomach or fragile of heart. Many thanks.
> 
> Thank yous to thisprettywren who always has my back and to mulatta who sorted out my crummy French. Any mistakes left remain because I am an idiot.

Moran has been out for far too long.

His task was a relatively simple one; acquire a prostitute, male, 35 or younger, clean (or clean enough). Compared to the things he’s generally capable of, it’s child’s play so the delay is both unexpected and frustrating. He’ll be punished for it, obviously.

It’s been an arduous job, presenting uncommonly high levels of stupidity and ineptitude on all fronts and now I thoroughly deserve to indulge in the base pleasures. This seems to be an inept end to an inept day.

I flick through the tedious books on the small bookcase, the meaningless words blurring together, trying to pass the time in the cottage. It’s outside of London, an investment from years ago, ideal for matters that require a sense of privacy. Quaint in its own way; an open-plan living space downstairs with a simple mezzanine level for sleeping. Minimal. Ideal. The cottage was bought for solitude but that solitude is grating now, the anger beginning to bubble and flair. He knows how I feel about being kept waiting.

I snatch a glass from one of the cupboards, pouring some water and draining it, taking a step back and launching the glass into the sink to a dramatic explosion of glittering shards that spray up from the ceramic. It’s childish but oddly satisfying, easing the tension for a moment before there’s the distant sound of a car on the driveway.

 _Finally._

It’s a more few minutes before Moran reaches the door. I position myself into the angle of the wide corner sofa which takes up most of the space in the room, smoothing my shirt front and arranging the light crease in my trousers. It’s important to make a good first impression, regardless of the company in question.

There’s the sound of a skirmish outside and a flurry of activity narrated by the crunching gravel of the path and shouting muffled by the thick walls. A fight! An escape! A capture! And ‘lo the matter is in hand again.

I wait, projecting the calm patience I do not feel.

Soon the door twists and lurches open, a loud creak of the old wood combining with the muted grunts of the man tucked under Moran’s arm. He has him in a headlock, arms twisted behind the man’s back; graceless but admittedly effective.

Moran looks over with a smile. There isn’t a hint of the fear or apology that are surely called for. I want to claw at him, rip the smug smile from his face. A tight fist of tension lurches in my gut as I flit through feasible punishments. A crushed ice enema would be fitting, I think.

The image is an appealing one; Moran folded down on the bathroom floor, white shirt crumpled and transparent with sweat, whimpering as the ice solution pumps into his upturned rear. I would run outstretched hands over Moran’s distended stomach, feel the twitch and pull of his muscles trying to evacuate the chill that invaded them. Watch his face grimacing, taut with single-minded concentration, controlling the fighting urges of his own body. Take a fist of his silvery hair and whisper into his ear, make sure he knew the rules, re-establish the respect which is evidently lacking. Make him wait until his body was on the very brink of expulsion, make him plead and beg at my feet.

A very appealing image indeed.

Moran releases our little visitor from under his arm and he stumbles and stands, brushing himself off indignantly. When he stands up straight, I can get a proper view of his face and the anger and frustration that have been building suddenly dissipate. He is almost perfect. Every second of delay has been thoroughly justified.

The boy (man? boy.) stands with his arms wrapped around himself, weight resting on one hip in false confidence, throwing the delicate lines of his into jarring angles. It does nothing to mask his shifting eyes that desperately seek an exit. He’s in his late twenties, his frame lithe (probably a result of narcotic abuse), dressed in a tight t-shirt, baggy jeans and an over-sized hoodie. His hair is a curling mass of dark brown hair that hangs at his ears. His skin is pale and stretched over harsh cheekbones that angle his face. The resemblance is uncanny. Perfect.

“Seb, out.” He looks dejected and confused, the smile disappearing from his face. “Well, I’m not going to share him, am I? Out.” He hovers by the door for a moment, wiping at a smear of drying blood on the arm of his shirt and considering speaking out against orders. He wouldn’t insist on staying. He may be lacking in some areas but he knows better than that.

As the door slams closed behind him, I take a deep, clarifying breath to prepare. This evening had been all planned out, mindless release after a particularly problematic job. This is going to be so much better than that.

“I’m sorry about him. He can be a little... heavy handed.” I take a step towards the boy and he flinches, edging back slightly towards the wall.

“Yeah, you ain’t kiddin’, mate.” He’s rough around the edges, street worn and jaded; a diamond clouded by dirt and fumes and smoke. His voice breaks the illusion, but speech is an overrated quality in a partner anyway.

“I don’t know what he told you, but I’ll make this worth your while. How much do you usually charge?”

His face dances as he weighs up the situation, takes in the cosy pseudo-safety of the cottage and notes Moran’s exit, “Fifty quid for a suck, a ‘undred for a fuck. Three ‘undred for an all-nighter.” How sweet. He’s upped his prices to compensate for the danger. Quite the businessman we have here it seems.

Taking a thick fold of notes from my pocket, I walk towards him and his gaze sets on it intently. Such a greedy little rabbit. He holds out his hand, taking the notes as they’re unfolded to lay in an eager palm.

“You’ll answer to whatever I call you. Any question I ask you, you’ll respond with a ‘yes’. No other talking is acceptable. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” _Good boy._

He has eight £50 notes in his hot, little hand and a wide-eyed expression as he spends the money before it’s made.

“If you’re a good sport, there’s more where that came from. Now, let’s get you out of those clothes, shall we?”

* * *

As my cock slips into his throat, he groans like the cheap whore that he is.

He’s writhing now, lying on his back with his arms tied and pinned beneath him, white shirt pulled buttonless and open to frame a wide strip of his thin chest. His hips thrust forward against the grey suit trousers that tent proudly, the thin material of the crotch watermarked with drying patches of come.

“Oh God, Sherlock you have no idea how long I’ve wanted this, wanted you. I’ve waited so long.”

His practised ease is admittedly a little disappointing though easily remedied. One hand held under his chin, the other cupping the curve of his skull, I thrust in, harder than he’s expecting, and hold his mouth tight against my abdomen. There’s a second’s pause, not long enough for him to require air but the hands have him spooked. His shoulders begin to thrash against the edge of the sofa, his legs grappling for some sort of purchase to lever himself away. His nose wriggles between my balls deliciously.

It’s so much better now.

His throat begins to clamp down in panic, the delicate reflexes all returning to him as the seconds drag on and his fear ratchets higher.

“I’ve made you dance again, Sherlock.”

I pull out and he coughs up a mixture of spit and pre-cum which splatters across the lower half of his face before dribbling down his cheeks; a pointillistic smattering of lust. He squints as he looks up at me from below my cock, his face dark in its shadow. Considering.

It’s a beautiful narrowing of the eyes, honing his face. The connection between us, the rippling and sparking meeting of kindred spirits, is palpable. His curls catch on my fingers as they drag across his scalp; a firm hand to guide him back to me, ease his doubts. I wipe away the tears that have begun to creep down the side of his face, licking them off my fingers, tasting the light saltiness. Letting it spread across my tongue. Keeping it there until it’s disappeared.

Pushing back in, he twitches and contracts around me, a brand new sense memory. Any implicit trust between us is gone now; he quivers under and around me, pinned and owned and mine like an endangered butterfly under glass.

I roll one of his dusty pink nipples between forefinger and thumb. He arches up into the sensation. So wanton. His little pet must not be meeting his needs; if only he’d come to me sooner. Pinching it sends a rough groan vibrating through my cock and spreading to my balls.

My fingernails leave blossoming lines across his chest, flaring dark then settling into a flushed pink. Where the lines cross, tiny droplets of blood gather on his pale skin; a reddening OS map of all his internal organs, grid referenced and compartmentalised under the lined skin.

It begins, the insistent pressure starting at the base of my spine and slowly unfurling. It can’t end like this; I couldn’t bear to think of the waste. It needs to be something special for the great Sherlock Holmes. Something a little more memorable.

I watch the bulge in his throat rise and fall as my hand fumbles on the mantelpiece beside us. It’s here somewhere, lying in wait. Sherlock’s nose is nestled into my sac again when my fingers make contact with the cold metal. He huffs a sharp half-breath through his nostrils and I can feel it, close and impossibly intimate, against the overheated skin. I almost want it to be reactionary, want him to share the moment, but that awareness would ruin everything. He’ll be mine and mine alone forever.

Withdrawing a little and keeping my thrusts shallow, I reach down his body, pulling his erection free from the cum-stiffened trousers that cage it. His hips thrust mindlessly into freedom until I grip him and another guttural moan reverberates through my cock. He’s eager now, sucking me in earnest and silently urging me to mirror his rhythm.

Instead I give him a counterpoint, changing it when he slows or speeds up to try and match it, though the game of cat and mouse doesn’t last long. I pull out of his slick little mouth as his body starts to twitch and move, vibrating in preparation. It’ll be his fourth and last.

I’m ready. Ready to catch the fleeting seconds before they slip through my fingers.

He can’t manage much this time and it’s a lacklustre dribble of semen that trickles over my hand as I strike. The knife plunges straight through the back of his neck, grazing his spine and appearing the other side like a macabre magic trick. The flesh parts with a delicate ease, the blade so sharp that the point is barely visible. It’s lightening fast and there’s no seam between now and before. A strangled grunt. The whites of his eyes still visible in strained climax though now his eyelids flicker delicately. How outrageously flirtatious.

A violent shove to his forehead brings the knife up to the surface, slipping through the flesh with an ease rarely found in a blade. The nerves stretch and pull in futile resistance before slicing clean and snapping back into the severed flesh. There’s a soft pattering through the near-silence, a heavy stream of scarlet marking triumph on the carpet.

Another quick pull and snap, with a blood-soaked hand behind his neck and one on his forehead, and he’s split open for me. Ready and waiting. A winking invitation.

His body is slow to register any malfunction, the muscles still jerking and writhing in pleasure, his cock still pumping its last; bubbling up and dripping down his shaft. _Le petit mort et la mort finale. Tellement beau._

I push my dick into the weeping stem of his neck, the blood thick and sticky, hot as it oozes down my thighs like soft hands against me. The flow is slowing slightly but it gathers in warm puddles at my knees, spreading stained crescents into the rug. There are only a few seconds left until his automatic muscle response realises the grave flaw in its infrastructure and gives up the fight. Only a few seconds of this crystalline moment, pioneering into Sherlock’s body, breaching virgin territory.

Crushing pressure clamps down around me as his gaping oesophagus tries to expel and shut down. I force myself into him, bullying into his twitching body, chasing the last dying sparks of life, and then it’s there. Unwinding and releasing, vibrating into every cell, I bury myself deep inside, pumping my seed into the waiting pit of his stomach. It’s delicious and perfect and for a moment, I’m not sure it’ll ever be over. Time slows into endless seconds as the expiring flesh contracts around me, drawing me in as it battles against the fading embers of its own existence; demanding, encouraging, milking every last drop until my body feels like an emptied husk.

I curl over, drained and hollow, resting my cheek on the pale expanse of chest in front of me. The room is too bright, my vision ripples and creases.

I stay there, panting against his chest until my penis softens enough to slip out. As it does, Sherlock’s last breath escapes, a rasping rattle that bubbles with my cum, a milky pink mixture, he and I combined. If there were any justice in the world, the sound would echo, rebounding off the every surface in the room on an infinite loop. The wheezing sigh of the World’s only consulting detective saying farewell.

So now I’ll sit here, breathing, curling my fingers into his hair, lips pressing against cooling expanses of skin. Everything else is far away. Nothing matters beyond this room, our own private nirvana. Everything is as it should be until something bursts the immaculate bubble. Something always bursts the bubble. Such is life.


End file.
